


Shades of Grey

by Angylsmuse, Orithain



Series: Fourth Pass [46]
Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9493109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angylsmuse/pseuds/Angylsmuse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orithain/pseuds/Orithain
Summary: A trader meets a weaver and discovers that everything’s not as black and white as he’d thought.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted March 2002.

Pyotr watched his brother with Mikha, the happiness shining out of both them, and he began to get quietly drunk. After all the confusion and anger and tears, the solution had been so simple. Who would have thought that there were two of them, one the sweet innocent who made Grey’s heart pound with excitement, and the other... Petya broke that thought off.

He watched the twins huddle together, talking, and a frown drew down his brows. Mikha might be an innocent, but his brother... what was his name? Ah yes, Misha... Misha was a slut, plain and simple. He practically pawed Petya every time he saw him. The trader’s eyes narrowed when he saw the slut-twin dancing with the watchrider, and he slugged back another glass of ale.

Misha glanced over at Grey’s brother, Petya. Was it really what Mikha had said; _was_ he in love with the taciturn man? Watching him through lowered lashes, the elder twin felt his heart speed up and his palms become damp. His mouth went dry, and he felt as if he couldn’t breathe.

His other encounters had never left him like this. Other men had never left him feeling hesitant and unsure - and less than perfect.

It was almost palpable, the contempt the older man had for him, contempt he’d brought down on himself. But how to fix this? How to make Pyotr see he really wasn’t as bad and as... well, as much of a slut as he assumed Misha was? There had to be a way. But what?

Pyotr continued to watch the young weaver, refusing to admit to himself how his body was responding to the sight of him. There was no way he could be interested in a slut who spread his legs for anyone who passed by. So why was he nearly crushing his glass in his hand as he watched the watchrider dance with Misha? He growled angrily and chugged another drink, his eyes fixed on the young man.

Misha glanced over at the gorgeous trader, wanting to look at him once again. The watchrider was cute and they’d had fun together, but there was something about Pyotr... _Shells, he’s so handsome and strong, and I bet he’s as virile as all get ou..._

Misha’s mind ground to a halt as he realized that the older man was staring back at him. Staring and looking for all intents and purposes like he wanted to kill Misha. There was little doubt at all about just what the trader thought of him. He detested Misha.

Wilting slightly, Misha made his apologies to his partner and beat a hasty retreat out the side entrance. How could one man, one glance make him feel lower than a tunnelsnake and less desirable than Thread? The way Pyotr’s eyes had raked across him derisively made him feel dirty and cheap, like he was a whore.

“Damn him anyway, I don’t _care_ what he thinks about me. I’m not going to let him hurt me. I’m going to find myself a handsome man who appreciates me for me and have fun tonight.”

The trader made it through the door in time to hear the young man’s comment, and he snorted derisively. “Oh, I appreciate a slut for what he is,” he slurred. He reached out, grabbing hold of the weaver’s arm and yanking him against his body. He was drunk enough not to register the look of fear on Misha’s face, but fortunately, drunk or sober, regardless of his opinion of his partner’s morals, Petya wasn’t the kind of man who enjoyed hurting others.

He held Misha in a tight embrace, but the lips that explored the young man’s face were gentle. His tongue crept out to taste the other man, and it ran along the seam of Misha’s mouth, asking to be allowed in.

Misha whimpered and tried to back away. He may have wanted Pyotr, his body’s response was proof enough of that, but not like this. This was... frightening. No one had ever taken him in anger or contempt before, and the young weaver, though worldly and knowledgeable in some areas of love, had no desire to learn of this.

Yanking his head away, he struggled to get away from the older man. “Don’t lie to me. You don’t want _me_ , you just want a convenient body, and you think I’m slut enough to give in without a thought. I’m _not_ like that. Let me go!” Misha fought, fright turning into blind panic as he fought to get away.

Pyotr laughed bitterly, holding onto Misha easily despite his struggles. “I wish that was true. I don’t _want_ to want someone like you, but I do. Doesn’t matter that you’re a slut, male, and not a trader. I still want you. I _dream_ about you. You’re driving me crazy, and maybe if I fuck you, I can finally stop thinking about you!”

“What about me, what about what I want. Do you think I want to be used like that and thrown away? Despite what you think, I’m not one, dammit,” Misha yelled, struggling against the iron strong grip of the trader. “Let me go. You’re hurting me. I’ll... I’ll make sure you never, ever are allowed back in Kosciusko Weaverhall again. I’ll say you raped me. I’ll...” Tears streamed down Misha’s face as he fought.

How could something that could have been wonderful turn so ugly? All he ever wanted was to have fun, a kiss or two, a cuddle, someone who’d pet him and tell him he was pretty and make tender love to him, then hold him afterwards and whisper all those pretty words a lover is supposed to whisper. Instead he felt dirty, cheap - less than worthless. Like a body to be used, or a... whore.

Pyotr flinched when Misha mentioned rape, releasing his grip and backing away, horrified. “I... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I... ” He reached out, intending to wipe away the young weaver’s tears, but his hand dropped when Misha cringed away from him. No one had ever feared him before. “I’m sorry. Sorry I hurt you. Sorry I scared you. Sorry I blamed you for wanting you too much.” His shoulders slumped, and he turned to leave, wondering how he would ever be able to forgive himself for this.

“I... I would have said yes, you know,” the young man admitted softly. “I did - I _do_ like you. I just don’t know why you hate me so much. Was what I did so wrong? I wanted Mikha happy, and he wanted your brother. He’s so shy that he would never have, and this way your brother was interested enough to pursue him and... Why am I even trying to explain myself? You still think I’m a slut, don’t you?” Misha replied quietly, scrubbing his tears away.

“I really would have said yes,” he whispered sorrowfully as he turned away to leave.

Petya reached out to lay a hand on Misha’s shoulder, relieved that he didn’t flinch away this time. He’d had enough to drink that night that for once he forgot about what he _should_ do and did what he _wanted_ to do.

“Can we start over?” he asked quietly. “Pretend the last candlemark never happened?” Unconsciously, he was stroking his thumb over the sensitive area where Misha’s throat joined his shoulder. “Dance with me?”

“I-I’d like that,” Misha replied shyly, his neck arching involuntarily as he was stroked. Moving closer to the trader, Misha half smiled through veiled lashes, still a little skittish but willing to try. He’d wanted this man from the moment he’d laid eyes on him, and Pyotr was trying and was being nice now. Maybe, maybe Pyotr liked him too... and if not, he was at least letting Misha live with the illusion of it for now.

“Just one problem,” the young weaver husked, “I don’t hear the music anymore, do you?”

The trader smiled, his arms going around the younger man slowly, giving him the chance to refuse or back away if he wished. Once he held Misha, ready to begin dancing, he started to sing softly, then to move to the music he created. He drew the weaver with him, graceful despite the alcohol. As Misha slowly relaxed in his arms, Petya tilted his head up with a hand under his chin and kissed him lightly, then continued dancing.

Sighing dreamily, Misha snuggled closer, lulled by the soft song and the sound of Petya’s heartbeat. Resting his head on the trader’s chest, the young tailor allowed himself to get lost in the romantic illusion that Pyotr really did want him, not just his body, that he loved Misha and was wooing him, courting him.

Swaying closer and closer to the older man’s body, Misha soon found himself plastered chest to knees against Pyotr, only hazily aware that his body was reacting to his attraction, his arousal increasing. Lifting liquid, soft eyes up to the older man, Misha carded his fingers through soft hair. “You’re as beautiful as a dream. I thought so from the moment I saw you clamber off the caravan you were driving. Mik was raving about how gorgeous your brother was, but all I could see was you.”

The trader only smiled and kissed Misha again. Their bodies stilled as they forgot about dancing, instead concentrating on the kiss and the sensations generated by their bodies pressed together. Petya rubbed his erection against the matching hardness he could feel at the other man’s groin, his hands sliding down to cup the weaver’s buttocks and urge him upward.

“Jays, you’re beautiful,” Petya groaned, tearing his mouth free, then latching onto the younger man’s throat, laving it with his tongue then sucking hard to mark him. “Taste perfect, feel perfect...” He kissed Misha again to stop the words he didn’t want to say, the things he didn’t want to feel.

Misha mewled low in his throat and softened in the trader’s grip, becoming pliant and giving. When he was at last allowed to breath on his own again, he looked up with huge grey eyes and begged softly. “Please, do something, _anything_. I want to feel you, please?

Petya groaned, the words going through him like a lightning bolt of lust. He had to have this man. “Is there someplace private we can go?” He kept rubbing against Misha, not wanting to give either of them a chance to calm down and think about what they were doing. He just wanted, for once, to do what he wanted without thinking about the consequences.

“I... I share a room with Mikha, so he’d see, but... there are the rooms Mother uses for only when lord and lady holders and the weyrleaders come to be fitted for clothes. Grand rooms with huge beds and soft coverings. We could go there?” Misha offered with a sly grin. “And many of the lord holders that come bring their husbands, so there’s always lots of oil kept readily at hand for any pressing needs they might have.”

Tugging at Petya’s hand, he quickly led the way through the meandering corridors to the ‘Lords’ Wing’ as Mother called it. Counting the rooms as he went, he found the one that had the biggest bed by memory alone and quickly tugged his new lover inside, latching the door behind him even as he uncovered the glow so that the room had a soft, hazy light to it.

Backing towards the bed, Misha began to strip out of his clothes as he did so, each seductive wiggle and glide shedding another layer until he was nude and sprawled against the thick, soft fur that covered the enormous bed. “Like what you see?” he purred, his hand reaching down to stroke his hard cock with lazy strokes.

“Jays!” Petya breathed, eyes fixed on the lithe, seductive body of the wanton young weaver, his hands fumbling with his own clothes in his eagerness to join him on that bed. “You’re beautiful,” he groaned, finally freed of his garments and practically leaping onto the bed.

He rolled on top of the younger man, his mouth covering Misha’s voraciously, reluctant to let him go even to breathe.

Arching up into the touch, Misha’s heart did flip-flops in his chest.  Could it be that this gorgeous man actually, honestly thought he was beautiful?  Did that mean that Petya really did like him instead of thinking of him as a quick fuck?  Misha desperately hoped so because if he were totally honest with himself, he was already more than half in love with the handsome, roguish caravaner.

Writhing underneath Petya, trying to feel every inch of skin that he could, Misha returned the kiss in kind, sucking and nibbling and generally feasting on his lover’s mouth even as his fingers lightly raked over his back.  When they at last broke apart for air, Misha couldn’t even form a coherent word; all he could do was mewl hungrily and wrap his legs around Petya’s waist in mute plea.

Pyotr froze for an instant, not sure how to proceed. Up till now all few his encounters with members of his own sex had been quick, hurried things, the other man on all fours as Petya pounded into him, then fled after their climaxes. He’d never done it face to face and wasn’t sure he could manage the intimacy. Then he looked at the pleasure-distorted face of the young man beneath him and knew that he wanted nothing more.

He kissed him again hungrily, fumbling for the oil, then sliding a single finger inside the weaver, wanting to prepare him quickly, needing to get inside him.

“Mmmmm, long and slender and clever, I like that,” Misha cooed happily.  “Bet you really know how to drive your lovers wild.  I can’t wait to feel you inside me, Petya, please?” the young man begged prettily, his hips riding his lover’s fingers expertly.

“Shards, so hot,” Petya groaned, not sure himself if he was referring to the clinging channel around his fingers or the words of his young lover. All he knew was that he had to have him, had to be inside him and claiming him _now_.

He hastily pulled his fingers away, slicked some of the oil over his cock, and pushed inside Misha. “Shells!” he gasped, and unable to hold still, he immediately began to pound into the weaver.

Wrapping his legs even more tightly around Petya’s waist, Misha wrapped his arms around the older man’s neck and slowly pulled himself up so that he was straddling the trader’s lap.  Leaning in, Misha once more sealed his lips against Petya’s and began to help the other man by rocking back and forth on the erection embedded deep within him.

Petya’s eyes widened, and his arms tightened convulsively around the slender young man riding him. “Jays, never imagined anything like this,” he gasped, his mouth moving over Misha’s jaw and down his throat, latching onto a single patch of skin, biting and sucking until a passion mark bloomed. His hands held the weaver’s hips, pulling him into every stroke, increasing the force and making both of them yowl with increasing sensation. 

“I... I know dozens of dif-different ways,” Misha moaned as he began to rock his hips faster, his body beginning to demand release.  “W-ways that’ll make your toes curl and you scream the roof down.  Y-you should see what I can do with my tongue,” the weaver smirked before he got his legs under him and rose up then slammed himself down hard on his lover, burying Petya within him all at once. “Shells, yes!” Misha’s one hand used the trader’s shoulder as a brace while the other wrapped around his cock, and he began to stroke his flesh in time with being penetrated.

Petya freed one shaking head and moved it to cover Misha’s, stroking the young man in time with the almost violent thrusts into him. “Yes, so good, can’t hold on,” he moaned, wanting to feel the spasms of Misha’s climax but trembling on the brink of coming himself. “Please, come, want to feel...”

His entire body stiffened, muscles quivering, and he thrust hard into Misha again, yelling out in his ecstasy.

The feel of Petya’s orgasm flooding him was enough to set the younger man off, and with a mewling cry he came, sending ropes of his own seed over both their stomachs and hands.  Sagging as the muscles of his body finally relaxed, Misha rested his head against Petya’s shoulder, feeling like he’d finally found his home.  “Oh, I could die happy now, that was.... amazing,” the weaver husked wonderingly after finally finding his voice again.  “It’s never been that good before.”

“Jays, you’re incredible.” To his own shock, Petya wasn’t softening, the last ripples of Misha’a climax serving to keep him hard. He pushed Misha over onto his back, never losing their connection, and started to fly him slowly, planning to make this one last a very long time.

Purring happily, Misha stretched his hands over his head and grasped the headboard tightly.  “That’s it, lover, fly me far and fast.  Make me feel it come morning.”

“Gonna make you feel me for the next sevenday,” Petya promised, leaning down to take his mouth as thoroughly as he was taking his ass.

Whimpering happily, the younger man began to move his hips in rhythm to his claiming.  Misha was more and more certain that this man was the one, the one he’d love forever.  But he was terrified to admit to it; Petya wasn’t exactly the picture of sobriety, so this could just be the alcohol.  Better to live with the pretty illusion of love than have his dreams dashed.  All he had to do was make sure he was gone before the older man woke up, but that was something he could deal with later.  For now, all he wanted to do was feel.

Petya continued riding him for what seemed like candlemarks, but eventually the sensations drew to a crescendo once again, and he began to move harder and faster, needing more and wanting to take Misha with him. “Come with me,” he gasped, “together.”

“Please,” Misha whimpered, wanting everything to be together from now on.  He couldn’t help it, he was apparently as moon-eyed as his brother, but shards, how could he not be with this... this gorgeous man over him, covering and claiming him.  “Yours, all yours,” the younger man groaned as his back arched, his toes curled, and with a shrill cry he came so hard his eyes rolled back into his head and his knuckles, still gripping the headboard, were white with the strain of it.

Feeling Misha come, Petya let go of his control and came inside him again, groaning his pleasure, then slumped over the young man, holding him close. The alcohol and exertions combined finally to push him into slumber, his eyes falling closed while he still lay atop Misha, his softening cock still inside him.

Curling around the older man, a blissful smile on his face, Misha happily followed Petya into slumber, his dreams full of happily ever afters where Petya declared undying love and married him on the spot.

~*~*~

Petya woke the following morning with a horrible headache and an incredible sense of wellbeing. He looked down at the beautiful weaver curled in his arms and smiled fondly... and then he started thinking about the look on his father’s face if he were to go back to the Caravan with this young _man_ as his mate.

Cringing inwardly, he started trying to escape the clinging grasp, desperate to get away from what was a horrible mistake. It was the drink; it had to be. The drink and this slut!

Pouting in his sleep, Misha clung to Petya even as he was slowly brought to a wakeful state.  Seeing the man he loved above him, Misha’s face lit up.  “Good morning, isn’t it a beautiful day?  Can we do that again, please?”

Staring down at him, Petya tried to say something cutting but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Instead he pulled free of the tight grasp, muttering something about his duties, yanked on his clothes and bolted from the room as if Thread were at his heels.

Blinking, Misha stared at the door as it slammed shut.  Gone.  Just like that and without even... A sob caught in the young man’s throat even as his chin came up.  If that bastard thought he could get away with treating Misha like a quick fuck in a back hallway, he had another thing coming!

Wincing gingerly as he stood, the aches and pains of being well-fucked no longer holding the same comfort they should have, Misha quickly stripped the bed and dressed.  Slinking down the hall to the rooms he shared with his brother, he was grateful to see that Mikha was nowhere to be found. 

Throwing his clothes into the garbage, never wanting to see the offending garments again, Misha sank into a hot bath and tried to soak most of the soreness away, and a cool cloth was applied to his face to relieve the puffy eyes and bring down his swollen lips.  When he at last felt human again, Misha got out of the pool and chose his clothes with great care, wanting to appear older, cooler and unaffected.

Sauntering into the great hall, however, Misha felt all his hard-earned composure slip away as he witnessed Petya pulling a serving girl into his lap and kissing her thoroughly, his hand playing with the curve of her breast.  “Bastard,” he whispered, his face going white as snow and his lower lip starting to tremble. 

Mikha caught sight of him just then and called to him, but all Misha could see was the man that he was in love with propositioning a woman.  A _woman_.  Tears splashed unheeded down his cheeks, and he whirled, dashing down the hall as if Thread itself were nipping at his heels.

Pyotr’s head jerked up when he heard Misha’s name, just in time to see the young weaver flee from the hall. Shells, he was heading toward an outside door! Didn’t the little idiot know that Thread was due in a little while?

Dumping the girl from his lap without a second thought, the trader bolted after the other man, only seeing a door swinging shut for his efforts.

“Shaffit!” he snarled, chasing after him. It was a sharding good thing Svaboda had been coming through here for Turns, and he knew the area so well. That might be the only thing that would save them from Thread.

His longer legs slowly ate up the distance between them—at least the fool was heading toward the caves!—and Petya caught up with him a little over halfway between the hold and the caverns. Glancing at the sky, he grabbed the struggling, snarling young man, tossed him over his shoulder, and ran for the caves with all the speed he had.

He managed to reach them with a little time to spare and practically threw the weaver to his feet. “What did you think you were doing, you sharding idiot?” he roared. “You nearly got us both killed!”

Misha stood as far on the other side of the cave as he could from Pyotr, trying to merge with the stone. “You didn’t _have_ to come after me, you know; won’t your precious trader clan and lady worry about you? After all, why should you or they care about me? I’m _just_ a weaver and a slutty one at that...” he trailed off contemptuously, knowing full well that the other man couldn’t stand being near him.

“Are you insane?” Petya snapped in frustration. “Do you have any idea what Thread would do to you, you idiot?! I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” He glared at the infuriating, beautiful boy.

The young man snapped back sarcastically, “Well, it’s nice to know I merit the same concern as your worst enemy - oh wait, I _am_ your worst enemy...” he laughed bitterly as he curled more tightly into himself, protecting himself from the venom he heard in the older man’s voice. “It wasn’t just my fault either - you may have been drunk, but you could have said no - and you sure as shards didn’t have to swallow _my_ tonsils.”

“You’re not my worst enemy, Misha,” Petya sighed. “Look, I’m sorry for the way I acted; I know it was as much my fault. But it can’t happen again, shouldn’t have happened at all.”

Misha stuck his chin out defiantly, not willing to let the handsome trader know just how much his rejection hurt. Why, oh why did he have to go and fall in love with a trader, this trader? “Oh, don’t worry - I’m not planning on it ever happening again. I’m not that much of a masochist. Maybe I’ll transfer to the Weyr - I’m sure I can finish my apprenticing there, and... I bet there’ll be lots of blue and greenriders who’d want me...” he trailed off, trying to bolster his spirits by reminding himself that there _were_ people who wanted him out there.

Petya frowned, not liking the idea of Misha with dragonriders. “I shouldn’t be surprised; you go out of your way to prove what a slut you are. Should I be honored that I managed to stand out from the crowd for a night?” he sneered, angry and wanting to hurt the younger man.

Biting back a whimper of pain at the slashing comment, the young man turned himself more completely into the wall so that Petya couldn’t see how close to the bone his contempt had cut. “Don’t flatter yourself. You just happened to look enough like Grey that I wanted to delude myself for one more night. Besides, I wouldn’t hurt my brother for the world, and to do that with Grey would have devastated him. Consider it a rebound sort of thing,” he snarled, wanting to wound as he had been wounded.

“Why you spoiled little bastard! How can you stand yourself? You brazenly admit to using people...” Pyotr paused, too angry to speak. “And don’t flatter yourself to think that my brother would ever be stupid enough to look twice at someone like _you_.” He sneered at the young weaver again. “I may not approve of him getting involved with a non-Trader, but at least he picked one who is worthy of respect.”

Misha’s eyes widened with pain and shock, and first one, then another, then a whole stream of tears began to fall, and he crumbled both physically and emotionally to the floor. “You should have let me die then; it’s the only thing that I seem to be good for, other than a quick fuck,” the young weaver sobbed wrenchingly as the other man’s poisonous words made him admit the travesty that was his life.

Petya took a step toward the sobbing boy before he could force himself to stop. “Don’t be melodramatic! Just because I don’t fall for your petty games is no reason to try to kill yourself in such a horrific way, you idiot! Stop playing with people, respect them and yourself, and you might even be worthwhile someday. You can’t be _that_ different from your brother.” Despite his cold words, he had to fight not to pull Misha into his arms and comfort him.

“Just leave me alone. You made your point - I’m a horrible, worthless, useless person who no one’s ever going to want or love. Be happy, trader, you put me in my place,” the young man whispered piteously as he wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his face in them, rocking back and forth, sobbing harder but in total silence.

Pyotr again took a single, involuntary step closer, then, without quite knowing how he got there, found himself on his knees beside the weaver, holding him in his arms. “Shhh, I’m sorry, shhh,” he tried to soothe Misha, realizing that in trying to protect himself, he’d gone too far and hurt the young man. “You’re not horrible and useless; you’re just young, Misha, and sometimes you don’t think. Of course you’re not unlovable, anyone could love you, _I_ love you—“ He stopped abruptly, his jaw hanging down when he realized what he’d said.

Misha’s head shot up, his eyes pain dark and tear streaked. “Don’t,” he whispered harshly, his whole body quivering with pent up emotion. “Please don’t say that. Don’t hurt me anymore, please,” the young man begged as he whimpered softly and tried to scrabble away from the man causing him more emotional pain than he thought he could survive.

The trader held onto Misha despite his shock at his own words, swearing sulfurously. “I never wanted this! Shaffit, I can’t do this!”

“Bastard. You bastard!” the young man cried out as he began to rail his fists against Petya’s chest. “Let me go - don’t touch me, you lying bastard! I may be a horrible, rotten person, but not even I deserve this torture. Stop it!”

Pyotr made no move to defend himself, knowing that he deserved far worse for the way he’d treated Misha. “I can’t,” he admitted painfully. “I really don’t think I _can_ let you go.” Then he closed his eyes miserably. “But I can’t have you.”

Misha’s hands slowly slid away from Petya, and he sniffled softly, the misery in Petya’s voice finally sinking in and snapping him out of his terrified rage. “D-did you really mean that?” he whispered in a watery voice as he scrubbed his eyes dry with the backs of his hands. “Y-you love me?”

“Why did you make me admit it to myself?” Petya groaned miserably. “I was perfectly content lying to myself. I could go home and marry an appropriate girl to give me children for the Clan. Now I’m always going to know what I’m missing. And with Grey with your brother, I’m going to have to see your image every day for the rest of my life.” He laughed bitterly. “That should be enough revenge for you.”

Misha reached out tentatively to stroke Petya’s chest. “You could still have a wife and children, I. I’d be willing to just be a secret and be with you only when you could. I... love you too, Petya,” he murmured quietly. “If it meant to be able to be with you just one day a Turn, I’d do anything you asked of me - even... be with someone else so no one would get suspicious,” he continued in a small voice.

“Misha...” Pyotr started in a despairing tone. “I won’t do that to you, Misha. I love you too much. I want you to be happy, and you wouldn’t be, living like that. You’re beautiful and you’re young. You’ll find someone to love you like you deserve. And I...” He laughed brokenly. “I’ll probably end up hating my brother for having someone who looks like what I want.”

Misha wailed softly, “But I don’t _want_ anyone else. I want you. I’ve wanted _you_ , not Grey, from the moment I met you. I lied, Petya, I would have done anything to seduce you, anything because I would have died if I hadn’t been with you. And now I’d rather die than live without you - please, Petya,” he begged in quiet desperation, “please let me stay with you.”

“You can’t, Misha.” He stared at the young man in his arms sadly. “No matter how much I want you, you’re not one of the Clan. If you were, I’d take you to my wagon and never let you go. I have brothers and sisters enough that I could adopt a nephew as heir, if that was the only problem. But I’ll be the leader after my father, and the clan will never accept a non-Trader as my mate. I won’t make your life miserable like that. And I can’t ignore my duty to Svaboda.” He groaned softly.

Misha sobbed quietly. “Then I don’t want to live without you,” he whispered, madly planning to get his hands on some agenothree. Quick, painless - it would be over in seconds.

“Don’t say that!” Pyotr shook the young man. “Swear to me that you won’t do anything foolish, like running out into Threadfall again! I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you. At least if I can’t have you, I can picture you happy, making a life for yourself.”

Misha defiantly refused to make that promise; after all, it would be a lie. “Then you’d be picturing a dream because without you I _can’t_ be happy!” he exclaimed passionately.

The trader groaned softly, his arms falling away as he leaned against the cave wall, needing its support. “Misha... Please don’t do this to me. Don’t make me choose between you and my family, please,” he begged.

Whimpering, Misha turned his head away in agony. “But I want to _be_ your family too,” he whispered as he began to cry quietly but giving in to the trader with a heavy heart. “If... if it’s what you really want. I’ll do as you say. But I won’t stay here - I can’t, not if I can’t have you. I don’t know where I’ll go but... Mikha’s going to be happy and...” Misha stopped himself from saying that he didn’t want to end up hating his brother for the happiness he couldn’t have.

Petya pulled Misha into his arms again. “Shards, Meesh, I’d give anything if we could be together. If I was anyone but my father’s heir, I’d stay with you in a second. But I can’t abandon them, force my father to start all over training someone else. If something happened, I’d never be able to forgive myself. And I’d end up hating both of us, Misha. I think it would kill me if that happened. I can’t, I won’t do that to either of us.”

Burying himself in the older man’s arms, Misha whispered painfully, “I almost wish you’d let the Thread get me. It wouldn’t have hurt as much as this does, and then you could have still had your illusions, and you wouldn’t be hurting either.”

“No!” Pyotr’s arms closed convulsively around Misha. “No. If anything were to happen to you, I couldn’t stand it. I’m so sorry I hurt you, Misha.” He tilted Misha’s head up and kissed him, forcing himself to keep it soft and tender.

Misha whimpered softly and opened his mouth wider, wondering if this is would be the last kiss he ever had in his life. He was sure he’d never want anyone else ever again, wouldn’t be able to stand being touched by someone other than Petya. “Please, Petya, he begged softly, “please.”

The older man stared into his eyes, then nodded, kissing him again, deeply this time, claiming him. “I’ll always love you,” he whispered sadly when he was finally forced to release Misha’s mouth to breathe. “Let me love you, one last time?”

A single tear tracked down the young man’s face as he nodded his agreement. “Make it so I never forget your touch, even a little bit,” he requested.

“I’m selfish, love, I want you to remember me, remember this time together, even though I know it would be best for you to forget about me.” He softly wiped away the tear, and then licked Misha’s cheeks, tasting the salt. “My lovely weaver, you’ve woven yourself around my heart.”

Misha moaned quietly. “I’ve gladly traded mine away - to a handsome Trader I can,” his voice caught on a sob, “never really have.”

Petya’s eyes closed as if to shut away Misha’s pain for a moment, then focused on him again. “I’m sorry, Misha. I’m being selfish again. I have no right to ask you for this, no right to make it harder on you.” He hugged the younger man to his chest. “When the Fall is over, I’ll take you back to your home, and I’ll leave.” His voice caught. “I won’t see you again.” _But I will_ never _forget you._

“Petya,” the young man whimpered, “love me, Petya - make the Fall last forever please.”

Pyotr stared at him searchingly. “Are you sure, Misha? Are you really sure? This will only make it harder. Harder to forget, harder to move on. You’re still so young; you should have a life with someone who loves you, someone you love. I don’t want to take that away from you.”

“There’s only one person I will ever love - you. I want to know how it feels to make love, Petya, not just have sex, please?” he begged beseechingly.

He kissed Misha again, unable to resist that plea. “Then I’ll make love to you, Meesh. If we can’t be together, we can at least have this.” He slowly worked his way down Misha’s body, kissing each inch as he exposed it while removing Misha’s clothing. “No,” he murmured when Misha tried to reciprocate. “Let me love you first, Meesh.”

Misha sobbed quietly. “I love you, shells, how I love you. Make me yours in body just like I’m already yours in my heart - let me know this one last pleasure.” _Before I never feel love or passion again,_ he thought to himself in despair.

“So beautiful.” Petya licked lightly, teasingly, at each nipple, finally settling on the left, suckling at it till Misha was squirming and whining beneath him. “Want to make you feel so good. Tell me what you want, love,” he urged but didn’t wait before his fingers began slowly to explore every sensitive spot on the younger man’s body, alcohol-hazed recollections of their single night together guiding him.

Misha moaned. “You,” he whispered, “all I want is you - all I’ll ever want is you,” he cried out as he moved closer and closer to a hard and fast orgasm. He wanted this man so desperately that his body reacted with lightning speed to Petya’s loving.

Petya reached between them to stroke Misha’s weeping cock, wanting to give him pleasure. “Come for me, Meesh, let me see you, see your pleasure.” He rubbed against Misha’s hip as he stroked harder, his other hand sliding beneath the young man to gently tease his anus.

Misha’s head rocked back and forth on the ground as his heartmate worked his body into a frenzy of need. When he felt the first, ticklish brush of a finger against his anus, he released a tiny, whimpered scream. Bucking his hips up and down involuntarily, Misha sought greater friction from the hand around his cock and trying to have the one between his cheeks penetrate his needy body.

“Petya, please, shards, oh, oh, OH!” Misha screamed his release as his orgasm swept through him, blinding him in its moment of white-hot fury, his semen painting milky white patterns across his stomach and Petya’s hand.

Pyotr watched his lover come with greedy eyes, then, as the younger man was still quivering with the aftershocks, he quickly stretched his lover, using his own seed as lubricant, then slid inside him. “My Misha,” he moaned, feeling the tiny spasms running through the weaver’s body. “Wish we could stay like this forever.”

He slowly began to move his hips back and forth, intent on arousing his lover again before he came. He stroked the softened penis, making Misha whimper, and whispered hot words of lust into his ear.

Whimpering softly, Misha let his eyes sink shut so as to better feel every single inch of Petya sliding in and out of him. It was so different from all the other times, even though the mechanics of it were still the same. This was what love felt like, to make love.

Opening his eyes again, Misha smiled dreamily, feeling his young body reawaken to the passion that burned between them. “Only yours, Petya - will never belong to another. My heart, my life.”

A single crystal tear of bittersweet joy tracked down his cheek. To have found his forever-mate so young, only to lose him and spend his life alone... The pain was exquisite in its purity and purpose. “Will never love another, my life, only you,” he whispered, reaching up to pull Pyotr in for a wildly passionate and heartfelt kiss.

Petya moaned softly, dismayed at the pain inherent in Misha’s words. Yet how could he deny them? He knew that he, too, would never love anyone else. But what could he do? The clan would never accept an outsider as the leader’s mate. He fought to ignore his thoughts, to turn his mind off and simply feel.

“I love you,” he whispered, stroking Misha’s again rigid erection in the same rhythm as he stroked into him. “Come with me this time,” he murmured, then kissed Misha hungrily.

“Petya,” Misha moaned as he let the older man’s tongue invade and claim his mouth completely. His hips began to move in tandem with Petya’s thrusts, wanting his lover deeper than any had ever been. If this was going to be the last time he made love in his life, he’d make it a time to remember.

Wrapping his arms around Petya’s shoulders, Misha pulled himself up until he was impaling himself on the thick, hard spike of Petya’s cock, whimpering and shivering and whining softly as he drew closer and closer to his orgasm.

Rubbing his own, sensitized cock against Petya’s hard stomach, feeling his balls tickled by the wiry curls underneath them was all the goading it took for Misha to come, crying out Petya’s name as he writhed and danced on the cock within him.

Petya cried out, gasping Misha’s name as the younger man clenched around him, gripping his cock in the tight muscles of his ass, driving him over the edge. He shuddered violently, his arms tightening around Misha, and he held him close even after the last spasm of pleasure had released him.

“It’s not enough,” he almost sobbed, already feeling an aching emptiness. He knew they still had hours before the Threadfall would be over, but he wanted Turns with this man.

“Don’t, please don’t,” Misha whispered painfully, his eyes tearing up yet again. “Can we just pretend, please, that today is forever? I don’t want to think about it; I _can’t_ think about it, or I’ll go mad from grief,” he sobbed softly, clinging to his lover and beloved.

Suddenly desperate to know everything about this man, to burn Pyotr’s image so indelibly into his psyche that he would never forget a single second, Misha became wild under the older man, touching and tasting, committing everything to memory, every flavor and scent and sound. He pushed the older man back, gently, and without ever losing his connection to the man underneath him, began to learn and relearn everything.

“Pyotr, love you, love you forever,” he whispered over and over, wanting to savor the sound for as long as he could.

“I love you too, Misha; I always will,” Pyotr replied, matching every caress with one of his own, his hands touching every inch, stroking and petting. “I’ll think of you, remember you, every day of my life. And I hope that someday you can forgive me for not being strong enough to stay away from you.” He laughed bitterly. “I want you _too_ much, too much for either of us.” _You’re mine and I want to keep you,_ he thought miserably, trying to bury his thoughts in Misha’s body again.

“Want it all,” he gasped, tearing his mouth away from Misha’s throat, “want you to take me this time. Need you, Meesh, please.” He rubbed wantonly against the younger man, thrusting their groins together, making tiny, pleading sounds.

Misha moaned softly, shocked and aroused by the older man’s request. He’d never... “I’ve never done that before, Petya,” he whispered, his violet eyes gone dark with need.

“I’ve always been taken, never done the taking. Teach me how? I _want_ to do that with you, Petya. I _want_ to be inside you so badly it’s an ache,” the apprentice weaver whispered hotly, his hands roaming possessively over the older man’s body, committing it to memory.

Pyotr shuddered with renewed need when Misha said he’d never done this before. The idea of being his first was incredibly arousing, and he had to hold himself back from pouncing on the young man. “Just think about what feels good to you, baby. Remember everything that I’ve done to you that you’ve liked, everything that you’ve ever imagined enjoying, and that’s what I’ll like. I’ve never wanted anyone or anything the way I want you.

“Need you more than I need to breathe. You’re part of me now, and I want to feel you inside me physically too.” He stretched out on his back, slowly stroking his own cock and meeting Misha’s eyes. “How do you want me, sweetheart?”

Misha’s breath caught at his lover’s heated words, hardly daring to believe that this man wanted him that badly. “Petya, I... want to see you. Want to watch you and watch me in you,” the younger man husked, staring down at the trader with lust dark eyes.

Using a trembling hand to gather up enough of his own semen, which still decorated his lover’s chest, Misha slid between Petya’s outspread thighs and began to work first one, then a second and a third digit inside, stretching his lover and relishing the groans of desire he drew from the older man. “Am I doing this right?” he husked, eyes shining in delight at the pleasure he seemed to be causing.

Petya groaned, laughing shakily at the question. “Sweetheart, if you were doing it any better, you’d kill me with the pleasure.” He cried out when Misha flexed his fingers inside him and scraped over his prostate. His hips arched up off the ground, and he quivered.

“Please, Meesh, want you inside me,” he pleaded, riding the weaver’s fingers eagerly. He brought his hand down to his cock, gathering the droplets of precum on a finger and raising it to Misha’s lips.

Suckling on the proffered digits, Misha let his eyes drift shut to better savor the taste. Only when Petya groaned and harshly demanded Misha to take him did he open his eyes again. “I love you, Petya,” he said sweetly, his heart visible for all of Pern to see in his eyes.

Withdrawing his fingers he guided his cock to the tight ring of muscle and began to slide in slowly, taking his time as he sank in to the root of his erection. “I’m in you. I’m really inside you,” the young man breathed wondrously, whimpering slightly at the flexing of the older man’s muscles as he shifted. It was like being wrapped in sun-heated sisal, only tighter.

“Oh Petya,” Misha moaned, watching himself slide in, hardly believing the sheer eroticism of watching. “So beautiful. We look so beautiful...”

“ _You_ are so beautiful,” Pyotr gasped, his eyes fixed on the beautiful boy making such tender love to him. He raised his legs, wrapping them around Misha’s waist, opening himself still farther.

“Love feeling you inside me, knowing we’re pleasing each other, love you so much,” he whispered raggedly, his hands stroking along the young weaver’s chest, teasing at hardened nipples, then catching one of his hands and drawing it down to his weeping cock.

“Please,” he begged, “want to feel you everywhere.” He bit his lip hard, then arched his throat as his head fell back and a cry of pleasure escaped him.

Wrapping his hand into a tight channel around the older man’s erection, Misha began to move his hips slowly, setting a slow, easy rhythm and having his hand follow in the same manner. “I love you, Petya,” he whispered. “Gonna love you forever and ever. No one else but you. I swear it.”

Beginning to move faster, the young weaver let the heat of their joining overtake him, and his hand began to stroke and squeeze his lover in counterpoint to his thrusts. “Want to feel you come, Petya. Want to know that I gave that to you. That I made you cry out in satisfaction,” he growled softly.

Petya whimpered softly, arching up into the thrusts and Misha’s hand. He could feel the pleasure gathering at the base of his spine, coiling tighter and tighter, and he forced heavy-lidded eyes to remain open, to remain fixed on Misha, to give his lover everything. He yelled Misha’s name on a hoarse sob as the knot of pleasure exploded, blossoming outward through his body, seeming to spread to his very fingertips.

He exploded over Misha’s hand, spurting long trails of pearly liquid over the weaver’s hand and their bellies, his body clenching on the still rigid shaft moving inside him. He made himself continue moving, meet every thrust and clench around Misha.

“Come for me, baby. Fill me. Let me feel you come inside me,” he whispered hoarsely.

Misha whimpered, feeling the older man’s tight anal muscles clench him firmly and massage his aching cock. The sight and sound of Petya coming was so erotic it was almost impossible not to join him. And then Petya whispered those darkly erotic words. It was too much.

Crying out in bliss, Misha slammed once, twice, a third time into his lover then stiffened, his cock jetting its seed deep into the haven of the older man’s body. On and on his orgasm seemed to go until it left him boneless and kitten weak. Collapsing onto Petya’s body, Misha snuggled into the crook of his shoulder, a tear trickling silently down his cheek. How could he live alone after knowing this glorious togetherness?

Pyotr lay sprawled, not caring about the hard ground beneath him or the rocks digging into him. He held his love in his arms for this short while, and he was determined to enjoy every second of it, sear every instant into his memory for when Misha was gone.

He felt the lone tear land on his chest, and a lump filled his throat. “Oh, please don’t cry,” he begged, his own voice ragged with suppressed emotion. “I can’t bear to see you hurting and know it’s my fault,” he admitted. “I wish I could be selfish enough to leave my family... or that I hadn’t been so selfish as to steal this time with you. I should have let you hate me, I know that.”

“No - no,” Misha whispered fiercely, shaking his head. “I’ll never regret this, regret us. It’s given me something I never thought I’d ever find. A perfect love.”

Curling into the older man, as if hoping he’d be absorbed into Petya’s flesh, Misha clung with all his might. The rest of his life would come soon enough. Long, lonely days and cold, empty nights stretched out before him like a never-ending nightmare, but he was determined to have this memory to cling to when the time came. “We’ve got candlemarks yet. Teach me your touch so it’s burned into me forever, that it keeps me warm for the rest of my life, reminds me that I’m yours, Petya.”

The trader moaned softly in distress. “What have I done to you, to both of us? Yet I still can’t regret it, no matter how much I’m hurting both of us. This time together... I wanted it so much, Meesh. There’s so much more I want to share with you, and I hate it that we won’t ever have that.

“I’m even selfish enough to be jealous that someday someone’s going to love you, going to grow old with you the way I want to. You’re mine!” he snarled fiercely, his voice a cry of pain.

“But I want you to be happy, love. And someday you will be.” _You’re so young. In time you’ll forget, and you’ll find someone else, and I hate him already._ He kissed Misha desperately, trying to imprint them on each other.

“Never,” Misha whimpered softly. “Will never love another, will never grow old with anyone if I can’t have you. You can’t make me, Petya. I won’t. My heart is yours forever!” the young man protested vehemently, knowing it to be true. He would never give his heart again, as he no longer owned it. It was Pyotr’s, and that would never change.

Petya didn’t argue, not wanting to spoil the little time they had together. He was sure that in time, Misha would perhaps not forget him but feel less intensely and move on with his life. Pyotr didn’t think he would ever be able to do that, and he wasn’t even sure he wanted to try. Loving hurt.

Then he looked into suspiciously bright eyes again, and he knew that despite the pain he would not give up a single second he’d had with the young weaver. “I love you,” he said softly, needing to say the words when passion wasn’t driving them.

Misha’s eyes glistened with crystalline tears, but he held them back bravely. “I know, and that means everything,” the younger man husked as he cuddled into the strong body of his lover, needing the succor and warmth of Petya’s touch.

“You’re my heart,” _and my life_ , the young man choked. “You’ve given me the most wonderful moment in time that anyone could ever ask for. I’ll survive now, because I have today to keep me going, to keep me alive.”

Pyotr held his younger lover tightly, wishing desperately that things could be different. Knowing that it would only make it harder in the end but unable to resist, he said, “If today is all we have, let’s make it last. Or pretend to,” he added painfully.

“I can imagine you ten Turns from now, a little taller, filled out, still so beautiful it hurts to look at you. You’re mine, all mine, and we’re celebrating our anniversary alone together.” He looked at Misha pleadingly, inviting him to share the fantasy.

“You’re even more handsome now than when I first spied on you out of the windows at the Weaverhall,” Misha choked out, willing to suspend disbelief and live in illusion, if only for now.

“The past ten Turns have been the happiest of my life. Belonging to you, being yours and knowing you’re mine has made me happier than I ever thought possible. I haven’t regretted a single moment of our lives together, even when we fought. I almost liked our fights the most because we always had the most intense sex afterwards, as if we had to burn up all the angry words in the scorching heat of lovemaking.

“I couldn’t believe it when you said you wanted to come back to the cave where it all began, but I couldn’t wait either. This was where you first told me you loved me. Where I got to tell you, convince you that I love you too. I love you now more than I ever thought possible, Petya,” the young man husked, losing himself in their playacting.

“And I love you too, sweetheart. I’ve loved waking up every morning to see you beside me and falling asleep every night with you in my arms. I can’t imagine anything that could have made me happier. Being with you, loving you, watching you change over the Turns, has been all I could ever want.

“I had to come back to this cave with you, where it all started for us really, so we could be together, so I could love you again like I did the first time. I just want to sit and hold you for a while now, hold you and talk about all the things we never seem to have time for, what you did before I met you, every single minute of your life. I want to know everything.” He held Misha tightly, wishing desperately that the fantasy could be real.

“Petya,” the young weaver sobbed softly, wrapping himself tightly around the older man. “I love you... I love you so much.”

Resting his head on the older man’s shoulder, Misha looked out the cave to where Thread no longer fell directly over them but was now a deadly shimmer in the distance. Dragonfire lit up the sky with tiny streaks, and the roars were distant rumbles of thunder. Soon, much too soon, Fall would be over, and they could go back to the weaverhall, only to never see each other again.

Misha felt himself die inside. Life was so unfair. How was it that just when he managed to find the person who could make him happy, he was denied that happiness forever?

Weeping silently, the young man clung to his lover with a strength borne of desperation. The one time he’d wanted Threadfall to last forever was the one time it was over in a heartbeat. His last heartbeat.

“I love you too, Misha,” Pyotr murmured in a heartbroken voice, holding the younger man to him. “Every day, every candlemark, I’ll think of you and love you. Always.” He buried his face in his love’s neck, tears again welling up in his eyes. When he raised his head again, a soft sound of sorrow escaped him.

“The Fall is past, love,” he said sadly. “We have to go back. Your family is going to be frantic with worry about you.” Despite the trader’s words, it was some moments before he released the other man. Finally, he forced himself to let go, reminding himself that he had no right to hold him.

~*~*~

The weaverhall was silent in the early candlemarks of the morning as Misha placed a note next to his brother’s head and crept out of their rooms for the last time. He couldn’t stay here - couldn’t say goodbye to Petya and feel his heart shrivel up and die as his love rode away. No, there was only one way out of this mess he’d made for himself.

Waking the watchrider, the young man made his tearful request and was soon ghosting past the trader caravan on the way to the outer paddock where the dragonrider’s dragon awaited them.

Pausing momentarily in front of the wagon Misha now knew to be Petya’s, the young man trailed his hand lovingly along the wood _. I could have made you happy, Petya. I would have loved you forever; I_ will _love you forever,_ ” he thought quietly, crystal tears shimmering silver in the moonlight. _Goodbye, love of my life. Be happy, please?_

Turning, Misha squared his shoulders and left the weaverhall without looking back. Time to start a new life far away - and hopefully find a way to forget, even for a time.

**Author's Note:**

> And this is me (Orithain) breathing a huge sigh of accomplishment and grabbing a glass of wine to celebrate. With this story, ALL of my old fic is officially posted on AO3 now.


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